The safehouse was an old inn, buried on the edge of a dried-up town. Aria parked behind it, hidden from the road, and they crept inside through a broken cellar door.
Inside, it was quiet.
Too quiet.
Amara found the breaker box and flipped it. Old bulbs flickered overhead, buzzing like angry wasps.
Xander locked every door, checked every window.
Aria watched Amara pace the hallway like a woman with too many ghosts.
"Who do you think betrayed us?" Aria asked finally.
Amara stopped. Her eyes met Aria's, haunted. "I don't know. But I do know they've been one step ahead since the beginning. The cabin. The greenhouse. The asylum."
Xander entered, wiping blood from his knuckles. "Then we can't trust anyone outside this room."
Aria hesitated.
There had been a moment—back in the tunnel—when she thought Amara had hesitated too long before revealing the ladder.
Had she?
No.
She shook the thought away.
They needed each other now. Paranoia would only get them killed.
Later that night, as Aria tried to sleep, she heard voices through the thin walls. Xander and Amara.
"Do you think she's ready?" Amara asked.
"She has to be. We don't have time."
"She still doesn't know the truth."
Xander's silence was long.
Then: "No. But she will."
Aria opened her eyes.
A chill deeper than the night air settled in her bones.